


A String of Bloodied Pearls

by RainySpringMorning



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Blood and Violence, Murder, Pickpockets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringMorning/pseuds/RainySpringMorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all began with a pickpocket down on his luck, but Haytham Kenway doesn't let thieves get away without paying the price. Unfortunately, the same goes for witnesses, when notoriety makes a simple task a bigger issue than intended.</p><p>Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft, including all related content and characters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A String of Bloodied Pearls

**Author's Note:**

> I myself despise the notoriety system and how time-consuming and frustrating it can be, as it makes ordinary tasks into musket-fire and sword-slashing laden nightmares in the middle of a beautiful day on Boston - however, it is a lot of fun dashing about playing a wicked game of hide n' seek with the Brits. While I've also enjoyed the fruits of pickpocketing civilians, I began to piece together the idea of what might happen if Haytham had a taste of his own medicine, and what he would do if someone witnessed the immediate course of action. Haytham is not a purely good character, not at all, but there is a sincere tenderness somewhere in that heart of his, and it tends to show very slightly from time to time.

The hand was in and out of his pocket before he even realized it; Haytham snapped to attention as the big brawny fellow shouldered past him, making the careless mistake of tucking the stolen coins into his pocket well within Haytham’s eyesight. Unless he wanted to be seen… that was a very insensible move indeed, and Haytham was in no mood to be robbed on a day that been so tiring and unpleasant already; the British were on his heels down every street and he couldn’t find one damnable town crier to persuade into lowering his notoriety without running smack dab into another British patrol.

The thief turned down a narrow alley, the ragged sleeve coming up to rub beneath his splotchy red nose as he disappeared for a brief few seconds. Haytham was on his trail, grimacing at the thought of handling such an unkempt and ill-ridden man, but he refused to ignore the prompt for justice being flashed so blatantly in his face. The thief glanced back as he approached a haphazardly-stacked pile of barrels on rotting skids; noticing Haytham but a few paces behind, the thief broke into a run, shoving the skids so the barrels cartwheeled out into the alley and blocked the way.

No such obstacle this was for Haytham; gathering momentum, he shoved off the wall and leaped the blockage, landing in a full run after the thief. Sliding a sleeve blade free, Haytham bounded the final distance between himself and the thief and vaulted, pummeling into the thief from behind and ramming the blade down into the base of his neck; his hand jerked uncomfortably as the blade struck off bone, but the thief when limp regardless.

“That was a foolish trick,” Haytham snarled, lifting up off the thief’s bulk and slipping a hand into the pocket that held a fair amount of money. “Well, weren’t you quite the pickpocket?”

A low gasp caught Haytham’s attention and he looked up from the thief to the slim figure standing a few feet away, a basket on her arm and her hand pressed to her mouth; she’d come from the adjacent alleyway, taking the shortcut to the local market. Haytham sighed softly and hid his sleeve blades, pocketing the coins quickly as he stepped over the lout of a thief and approached the woman.

She was very beautiful, perhaps only in her early thirties, all peaches-and-crème skin that looked as silky as butter, wearing a white pinstriped dress and raccoon-pelt shawl. Her apprehensive eyes, large like a doe’s and a soft shade of gray, never left Haytham’s face as he came to stand before her with a faint smile. “You must forgive me about that, miss.”

“Oh!” was all the woman could say, her hand lowering to the base of her throat, to which Haytham’s eyes followed. There, coiled two times round and held together with a flashing topaz set in gold, was a string of beautiful freshwater pearls –well-crafted and obviously very expensive. _It’s likely she comes from a wealthy family. It would be completely disastrous if she were to tell anyone about what she saw…_

“W-why…?” she woman was trying to speak; Haytham waited patiently. “Why d-did you k-k-kill that man?”

“He stole something of mine, so I took it back,” Haytham responded frankly. The woman looked quite faint, and she went to the wall with an outstretched hand; said hand was quivering from fear. Haytham was surprised that she still hadn’t yet called for help. Perhaps she had witnessed murder before; it was obnoxiously common in Boston these days, with the war and all, of course. Haytham suspected that was the truth.

The woman turned to look down at the dead thief and made a sound of disgust, leaning back against the wall; Haytham noticed her bosom expanding widely, as though she were gathering breath for a scream. _No, no. That cannot do._

Silently, Haytham went to the woman and outstretched a hand, urging her to lean into him. “Come now, my dear. There, there,” he said gently, softly, pressing her face into his shoulder as a sob broke past her lips; she was shaking like a frightened child.

Without enduring another moment contemplating his choice, Haytham brought his other hand up and shoved the sleeve blade into her back. She stiffened, cry muted by the heavy layers of cotton and wool, and her weight sank into Haytham’s arms as the life went out of her. His face was a mask as he laid her down in the pooling blood of the thief’s body, leaving it for the guards to decide what fate might have had in store for the two unfortunate victims. Haytham’s eyes rested on the pearls at her slender throat, bloodied from when she’d bit her tongue and it’d trailed down her chin to her neck; her lips were smudged blossom petals, parted slightly, never to draw breath again.

With a swish of coats and cape, Haytham strode from the alley and onwards to wherever he had been headed; however, it seemed that he had forgotten and was left thinking of pearls spotted with blood.

He sure did remember when a British officer spotted him wandering aimlessly and had what seemed like a full battalion after him up and down the streets of Boston once more, just as Haytham had been before the thief made the last mistake of his life.


End file.
